Mind and Body
by moonlighten
Summary: October, 2012: Halloween brings unpleasant surprises for all four of the UK brothers. (Background Scotland/France.) In progress. Part 73 of the Feel the Fear series.
1. Chapter 1

**2:00 am, 31st October, 2012**

-  
>Northern Ireland's first thought upon awakening is that the fae are evil, duplicitous bastards.<p>

He'd assumed that they'd reached an unspoken gentleman's agreement regarding the rules of engagement in the low level war they'd been waging against one another for the past twenty years or so. To wit, that so long as Northern Ireland didn't throw anything heavier than _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_ (paperback only) at them, they would declare a ceasefire come bedtime and he could remain undisturbed by their malicious pranks and creepy voyeurism until his morning shower.

Said cessation of hostilities would by its very nature preclude his sleep being interrupted by one of the little shits curling up on his pillow like a cat, and yet there's the rotten egg smell of magic lingering on the air, and a tiny arse almost filling his field of vision when he opens his eyes.

Such an egregious breach cannot go unpunished, and so Northern Ireland grabs the – gnome? pixie? it's hard enough to tell them apart at the best of times, never mind in the near darkness with only what little of the bleached glow of the streetlight outside that can seep through the curtains to see by – transgressor by the scruff of its neck, fully intending to throw it against a wall so hard that it bounces. "Right, you fucking –"

His voice sounds slurred and Estuary-tinged, very much like England's does whenever he's over-tired or been on the sherry at Christmas.

"Jesus." The word feels too crisp in Northern Ireland's mouth; sharp against his tongue. He clears his throat a couple of times, and then tries it again. "Jesus."

His second attempt emerges in the cut-glass RP accent England affects most of the time, and the shock of hearing it makes Northern Ireland lose his grip on the whatever-the-fuck-it-is, and it growls angrily at him before popping out of existence, leaving behind nothing but its stink and a small cloud of shimmery smoke.

In its wake, Northern Ireland's heart begins to beat a little faster, and he reaches automatically for the lamp that sits on his bedside table. His hand, however, brushes the cold, clammy surface of what feels like a glass of water, and then knocks against something hard and angular, which overturns, landing on the mattress beside him with a soft thump.

It appears to be a framed photograph – Northern Ireland has to close one eye and squint before he can bring it even slightly in focus – of Portugal. The exact same photograph of Portugal, in fact, that has pride of place on England's own bedside table.

"Fucking hell," Northern Ireland says in England's voice.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p><strong>-<br>2:15 am, 31st October, 2012**

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>Wales is dreaming about dissolving.<p>

He's had the same dream so often during the last five hundred years that he can watch his eyeballs melting and the flesh peeling away from his bones with complete dispassion; it's such a commonplace sight by now that it's lost any of the horror that it might once have held.

Even England's melodramatic gloating over dream-Wales' liquefied corpse now inspires only a vague sense of relief that the whole tedious business is nearly at an end, notwithstanding the fact that it tends to herald a night filled with an endless round of teeth falling out and inappropriate nakedness.

Tonight, however, dream-England suddenly deviates from the most moustache-twirling portion of his usual speech, and starts saying his own name over and over. The change seems fairly inexplicable until Wales rouses sufficiently to realise that it's not part of the dream at all, but England himself shouting.

Which is actually even more inexplicable, and it makes Wales doubt that he's woken at all, because England should be in London, not pounding on Wales' bedroom door.

"_Lloegr_?" he ventures, feeling a little foolish.

The banging and shouting both stop, and England hesitantly asks, "Wales? Is that you?"

"Of course it's me," Wales says, but the words neither feel nor sound right. He touches his throat experimentally, and then his chin, jaw and cheeks. Their shape is familiar, but not as familiar as he would have expected. "Except I seem to have _Gogledd_'s face."

"I think you've got my entire body. Or at least I hope so, because I've got England's."

"Oh. Right." Wales thinks he should probably feel angry or scared like Northern Ireland obviously is, but he can barely even muster up mild concern. After Scotland's two week reversion to childhood, and what he made poor England suffer through in revenge, a bout of bodyswapping seems downright innocuous in comparison. "Just go back to bed, _Gogledd_. It'll probably have worn off by morning."

"Go back to bed?" Northern Ireland echoes, sounding thoroughly unconvinced by the idea. "Isn't there a spell or something you can do to fix this? Aren't you worried about what's happening to your body at all?"

"Not particularly." The last time this had happened, it had only lasted a couple of hours, and both England and Wales had simply stayed very still and carefully avoided touching any part of their borrowed bodies for the duration. As far as Scotland's curses went, it had been unusually painless. "But I can always give myself a ring if it'd set your mind at ease. England might even know a spell that'll reverse this."  
>-<p>

* * *

><p><strong>-<br>2:25 am, 31st October, 2012**

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>Scotland is carefully avoiding touching any part of his borrowed body. It's making the process of getting dressed incredibly difficult, but he sure as hell isn't going to drive to London wearing Wales' ridiculous stripy pyjamas, much less give England the arse kicking he so richly deserves.<p>

Changing the shirt had been challenge enough, but he can already tell Wales isn't wearing any underwear, and so the conundrum posed by the trousers has kept him stalled for the past five minutes at least. He plucks distractedly at the frayed ends of the drawstring which is pulling the waistband to uncomfortable tightness around Wales' ample middle as he contemplates the likelihood of his being able to coordinate his newly much shorter arms and stubbier fingers with enough finesse that the entire unpleasant business could be completed whilst keeping his eyes closed.

His ruminations are disturbed by Wales' mobile, which starts blaring out a high pitched, speeded up version of _Cwm Rhondda_ – courtesy of Northern Ireland once again, no doubt – England's name flashing on its display.

He grabs it off Wales' chest of drawers, and growls into the receiver, "I'm going to fucking kill you, England."

"It's not England," the voice on the other end is quick to point out.

"North? What the hell are you doing ringing Wales in the middle of the night?"

"It's not _Gogledd_, either, _Yr Alban_. It's _Cymru_."

Scotland rubs at his forehead in an effort to ease away the dull ache that's starting building there before realising it's not really _his_ forehead he's rubbing, and quickly dropping his hand. "So England's swapped us all round? Bastard always has to get the last word, doesn't he. I should have known he wouldn't let me get away with –"

"I don't think _Lloegr_'s got anything to do with this," Wales says. "Not intentionally, at least. _Gogledd_'s in his body, so I presume he must be in yours."

"But my body's…"

Scotland groans, cancels the call, and then quickly dials another number.

When he'd fallen asleep, he'd been in Paris.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p><strong>-<br>2:26 am, 31st October, 2012**

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>England is fairly certain he will never feel clean again.<p>

He should have known something was wrong from the moment he was pulled back into that close embrace, because neither America nor Portugal had hairy chests, or normally smelt like the Great Pavilion on the last day of the Chelsea Flower Show, and, most importantly, he should have remembered that he had gone to bed alone.

But he'd been warm and languid with sleep, thoughts still sluggish, and hadn't remembered until after he'd let the Frog hold him tightly and press a kiss to the back of his…

He scrubs at his neck vigorously again, hands overflowing with water and lather, but either the water's not hot enough, or the soap's not strong enough, as the prickling itch of his skin doesn't abate.

"Are you all right, _mon coeur_?" France asks, rapping lightly against the bathroom door. England watches its reflection warily in the mirror above the sink, but although the handle rattles a little, the chair he wedged beneath it holds, and he breathes a little easier.

Easily enough that he can call back with some confidence of his voice holding: "Piss off."

"Scotland?" France, on the other hand, sounds confused and, perhaps, even a little hurt, although England's well aware that that may just be wishful thinking on his part. "What's –"

He's interrupted by a shrill rendition of _Amazing Grace_, which makes England look around – but not _down_; dear God, he made that mistake when he first leapt out of France's bed, and _never again_ – for his own phone instinctively, before realising that it must be Scotland's. (The ringtone was chosen, no doubt, simply because Scotland was an unutterable wanker in addition to, it had transpired, a crass exhibitionist who didn't have the common decency to slip on even a pair of pants before he was abed.)

England listens to France's retreating footfalls thankfully, and then turns his attention to the bathroom window. It looks as though it might be a tight fit, but England's fairly certain that he could just about manage to squeeze himself through it. There still remains the twin problems of the subsequent five storey drop and a severe lack of clothing, but England's sure he can extemporise once he gets over the first hurdle between himself and freedom.

England is discovering just how badly he'd miscalculated the added breadth of Scotland's shoulders in relation to both his own and the width of the window frame, when France finally returns.

"_Angleterre_," he trills, sounding amused and every ounce as self-satisfied as every other time England has wanted to punch the smirk right off his wretched smug face, "your brothers want you to go home. You'll have to come out of there sooner or later."

"No I bloody well don't," England says, thinking that his brothers can go hang as far as he cares, because this was doubtless all one of their faults, anyway (and also that it appears that he's managed to wedge himself quite firmly in place, and thus unlikely to be going anywhere at all in any great hurry, whether he wants to or no).


	2. Chapter 2

**3:40 am, 31st October, 2012; London, England**

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>As it's almost impossible to spend time in England's company when he has access to alcohol and not see his genitals at some point in the proceedings, Northern Ireland finds that undressing his body is a relatively straightforward exercise, and not as traumatising as he had feared.<p>

Dressing it again is much more troublesome, as the inside of England's wardrobe is far more horrific than the sight of his dick.

As Northern Ireland had long suspected, his brother doesn't appear to own any items of clothing beyond those he wears for work that aren't the colour of pond sludge, wreathed in the faint scent of old man and mothballs, or both, and his underwear drawer contains nothing but a sea of neatly rolled black socks and briefs that cover the full spectrum of drab, from ecru all the way through to beige.

The latter are also fully deserving of their name, proving themselves to be so constrictive that Northern Ireland considers it a miracle that their repeated use hasn't forced England's testicles to reascend into his abdomen for their own protection.

The socks, too, are tight enough that they threaten to cut off the blood supply to his calves, but some faint twitch of residual muscle memory makes him reach for England's sock garters, even so. Aghast at this sudden betrayal on the part of his borrowed body, Northern Ireland defiantly pushes the socks down until their tops puddle around his ankles.

Lastly, he dons the trousers and jumper he had grudgingly picked out, which are at least commodious enough that they seem unlikely to crush anything vital, though the fabric of both is rougher than it looks and prickles irritatingly against his skin. He thinks that might go a long way towards explaining England's perpetually bad mood.

Afterwards, he spends some time standing in front of the long mirror on the inside of England's wardrobe door, appraising the results of his sartorial efforts whilst he attempts to drag a comb through the tangled thicket of weeds that purports to be England's hair.

He's never before paid such prolonged and careful attention to his brother's appearance, and his examination leads him to a revelation that is thus probably as overdue as it is surprising; one which he shares with Wales as soon as he hears the shuffling, diffident sound of his approaching footsteps.

"England doesn't really look that much older than me, does he," he says.

"I guess not," Wales says, his obvious puzzlement at this pronouncement flattening Northern Ireland's accent to such a degree that he barely recognises the voice as his own. "That's a good thing, though. It's extremely troubling when one of our kind begins to age visibly after they've reached maturity."

Northern Ireland supposes he deserves that kind of answer, as Wales has always been the one member of his family that he has turned to when he needed the answers to delicate or difficult questions such as 'Where do babies come from?', and 'Where do nations go when they die?' and 'If my mother and father were a nothing but a load of metaphysical bollocks, why the fuck do I have a bellybutton?'.

His point this time, however, had been a much less weighty one, and he is therefore quick to clarify, "Aye, I know. I just meant... Well, you look even younger, even when you're not being me, and yet you and England always dress and act like you're fucking pensioners or something."

Wales' laughs softly, sounding genuinely amused. "Strictly speaking, we _are_ pensioners, I suppose," he says, "and about thirty times over, at that. When you get to our age, comfort becomes rather more important than fashion, I'm afraid. I don't how you can bear to wear jeans this tight. I practically dislocated your hips pulling them up, and they still don't feel as though they're sitting right."

Northern Ireland had been deliberately postponing the moment wherein he had to turn around and come face to face with his own body, living, breathing, and talking without his mind inside it, but Wales' comment makes him curious enough to finally overcome his natural reticence.

The jeans actually appear to be fine, but whatever Wales has done to Northern Ireland's hair is an absolute fucking travesty. Somehow, he's managed to turn it into a staticky cloud of fluff like his own usually is, and the disorientation Northern Ireland had been expecting to feel is buried beneath a far more visceral sense of horror.

His one consolation is that Wales likely won't be leaving the house considering their current situation, and therefore this is a humiliation that will be confined within their family's bounds. If he reminds himself of this, and keeps his gaze averted, he can with relative ease tamp down the urge to grab hold of Wales and thereafter forcibly deploy the comb still clutched in his hand.

"If you think they're bad," Northern Ireland says, his eyes diligently trained on the point of his body's chin, "you should try wearing England's pants."

Wales visibly shudders. "I'll, um... I'll just have to take your word for that, _Gogledd,"_ he says in a slightly strained tone, and then, following a slight pause which Northern Ireland imagines is filled with unwelcome and disagreeable thoughts concerning their brother's undergarments, he claps his hands together and then adds with rather more vigour and a great deal of forced cheer, "Now, I think we could both do with a cup of tea, don't you? I suspect this is going to be a very long night."  
>-<p>

* * *

><p><strong>-<br>4:00 am, 31st October, 2012; Paris, France**

-  
>"Here, this should help clear your head," France says, placing a dainty white cup onto the table in front of England.<p>

The steam rising from it is bitter and pungent, and makes England's guts clench painfully tight as soon as he catches scent of it.

"Clear my stomach, more likely," he says, turning his head sharply to one side in an effort to escape the stench. "You know I can't stand the taste of coffee."

In actuality, he finds the stuff quite palatable once it's been diluted by around a pint of milk and sweetened by half a bag's worth of sugar, but he knows from experience that France considers their addition an insult to the fine blends he typically prepares, and he doesn't feel equal to the disgruntled squawking that would doubtless ensue if he were to press the matter.

Scotland's body is an uncomfortable enough place to visit already without the added vexations of a headache.

The sore spot in his back that Scotland has claimed to be plagued by for centuries – and that England has tried to exploit as a weakness whenever they fight for just as long – is not the slight twinge that England had always assumed it to be, overblown in a play for sympathy. It's a sharp knife being slowly and repeatedly twisted at the base of the spine, sending wave after nauseating wave of pain pulsating along its length and then across the breadth of his shoulders, exacerbating the ache of the bruises that had blossomed there after England's ill-fated attempt at escape by way of the bathroom window.

France studies his face for a moment, and then heaves a despondent sigh that is doubtless exaggerated for effect because it's hard to imagine that he's taking anything other than sadistic pleasure in England's predicament. "I'm sorry," he says, much to England's astonishment. He can't remember the last time he heard those words from France's mouth, or even if, in fact, they've ever been spoken to him, at all. "Scotland often prefers coffee when he gets up this early in the morning, and I'm afraid I forgot that you weren't actually him for a moment. You'd prefer tea, I suppose?"

His expression is the very picture of contrition, his voice is dripping with it, and though England searches for one desperately, he cannot find a single hint that the emotion is insincere.

"Yes, please," he hears himself saying with terrifying meekness. "That would be lovely."

France's smile is too broad to be anything other than genuine, as well; too broad, unstudied, and lopsided. With an equal lack of self-control, England finds his eyes drawn to first to the dimples in France's cheeks and then to those sitting just above his hips as he turns again towards his kitchen, revealed by the low-slung waistband of his loose pyjama bottoms.

The heat that rises in his chest and, even more humiliatingly, points much further south, is a reaction he successfully learnt to quash in himself centuries ago when it comes to the frog, but he can only presume that it's one that is far too deeply ingrained in this particular body to be so easily overcome.

"On second thought, don't bother," he calls out, prompting France to stop dead in his tracks and look back at him questioningly. "I should probably try and get some more sleep before it's time to go and catch the train. In your spare bedroom. Alone."

The emphaticalness of that final word makes France's fine brows knit together in puzzlement, but he eventually gives a loose and dismissive shrug of his distractingly bare shoulders, nonetheless. "If you think that's best, _Angleterre_."

It will be best for his peace of mind and continued dignity, at least, if the frog's going to insist on wandering about the place half naked for the next couple of hour's or so.

England nods decisively. "I'll need to have my wits about me when I get back home, I imagine," he says. Even though it's technically a lie, it's a plausible enough one that he becomes increasingly convinced of its veracity - and consequently, increasingly anxious - as he speaks it. "No doubt my brothers will have somehow found a way to make everything worse by then."


End file.
